"He wouldn't mind. Besides, if he saw us together he'd probably know. You aren't afraid of a goldsmith, are you?"
"I'm not afraid of any goldsmith living—or goldfish either, if it come to that. But I should prefer to be sentimental in some other language than plain English. I could order 'Cars sposa,' or—or 'Spaghetti,' or anything like that, without a tremor."
"But of course you shall put just whatever you like. Only—only let it be original. Not Mizpahs."
"Right," I said.
For three days I wandered past gold and silversmiths with the ring in my pocket … and for three days Celia went about without a wedding-ring, and, for all I know, without even her marriage-lines in her muff. And on the fourth day I walked boldly in.
"I want," I said, "a wedding-ring engraved," and I felt in my pockets. "Not initials," I said, and I felt in some more pockets, "but—but—" I tried the trousers pockets again. "Well, look here, I'll be quite frank with you. I—er—want—" I fumbled in my ticket-pocket, "I want 'I love you' on it," and I went through the waistcoat pockets a third time. "'I—er—love you.'"
"Me?" said the shopman, surprised.
"I love you," I repeated mechanically. "I love you. I love you, I—Well, look here, perhaps I'd better go back and get the ring."
On the next day I was there again; but there was a different man behind the counter.
"I want this ring engraved," I said.